The Calm Before the Storm
by your.daily.dose.of.fanfic
Summary: Cyrodiil, 4E 168. Emperor Attrebus Mede II lies dead. While his son, Titus, reluctantly ascends to an unstable Imperial Throne, others see a new chance for power. Yet, amidst the turmoil, rumours run rampant of a potential war brewing with the Aldmeri Dominion and, as rumour slowly turns into reality, the lives of citizens and nobles, peasants and princes are changed forever.
1. Prologue

_A/N: Just in case you don't know, the events take place between when Titus Mede II becomes the Emperor in 4E 168 and may go just past the end of the Great War ends and the signing of the White-Gold Concordat in 4E 175. This story also has mostly OCs in it, but because minor characters don't get enough love, I've included a lot of familiar references to NPCs, places, and events from previous games._

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><p><strong>PROLOGUE:<strong>

**IMPERIAL PALACE  
>2<strong>**nd**** of Last Seed, 4E 168**

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><p>The distant bells from the Temple of the One had just begun to toll midnight. Inside the confines of the Imperial Palace, a thick atmosphere of uncertainty descended upon the group of councillors anxiously waiting outside the doors to the Emperor's chambers— their low, hushed whispers echoing eerily through the dim marble halls. A bell tolled, and a patrolling guard's armoured footsteps could be heard clamping down a hallway somewhere in the Palace. However, the Emperor's chamber itself remained deathly silent. The councillors began to increasingly worry and huddle together, waiting with baited breath. Another bell tolled. The ornate wooden doors creaked open, and the councillors bolted upright. A stately Redguard dressed in the official robes of the High Chancellor stepped out from the light.<p>

"Inner Council," he spoke, "Emperor Attrebus Mede II is dead."

There was a sharp exhale of breath. Everyone bowed their heads solemnly. The twelfth bell sounded and stopped, leaving behind a long, tense silence. A few people mumbled quiet prayers to the gods for the late Emperor's soul, and, perhaps, for the Empire itself— the death of an emperor never boded well. Unexpectedly, the silence was soon broken by a quiet but authoritative voice from the back:

"Well, then. I suppose we had better get the funeral plans underway."

The rest of the group turned around to see who had just interrupted the solemn moment. The Chancellor's gaze sought its way through the councillors and settled on a middle-aged Breton statesman, dressed in fine and costly black velvet.

_Ah_.

"Have you no shame, Mottiere?" a Dunmer battlemage suddenly exclaimed, "The Emperor's body is barely cold, and here you are already planning his funeral!" There was some foreboding mild argument from within the group.

Mottiere smiled. If he felt any irritation, he did not show it. "I am not _'planning'_ anything, Councillor Salas," he replied smoothly, "I am simply _suggesting _that we act swiftly and decisively."

The Dunmer scoffed. "Oh, please. Do you seriously expect anyone to believe—"

"Victor, Athis– peace!" the Chancellor cried out. He looked desperately from one man to the other, holding out his hands in supplication. Then, he straightened up and managed a diplomatic smile. "The Emperor's body is still inside. The Council must not fight within itself, especially now." There was a cry of _"Hear, hear!"_ from the group.

"Apologies, Chancellor Dorian," Salas acquiesced humbly, "I'm afraid I let my temper get the best of me." The Dark Elf still did not face Mottiere. Chancellor Dorian sighed then turned towards the Breton.

"Councillor Motierre?" he asked. Mottiere was still standing impassively, but the Chancellor could just see the beginnings of red-hot embarrassment forming on the Breton's pale cheeks.

"Hmm, yes. Of course," Mottiere finally said at length, smoothing out his robes, "Likewise, Chancellor. I apologise. It is very late." Chancellor Dorian sighed and relaxed. Well, for as much as he could.

"Well then," he continued, turning to address the rest of the Inner Council, "Yes, Councillor Mottiere, you are right to... _suggest_ that Emperor Attrebus' body be laid to rest soon. However, it is imperative that we ensure a smooth succession. Crown Prince Titus, as you all know, is training with Imperial troops near the Skyrim border. He must be informed immediately of his father's death and escorted safely to the Imperial Palace. In the meantime, planning for the coronation is to take place as soon as possible—"

_"And the Emperor's will?"_ a voice from the back cried out. There was more murmuring, this time, louder. Voices were beginning to be raised. Chancellor Dorian steadied himself.

"Please! Please! Our late Emperor has informed me..." his voice trailed off as he became aware of an uncomfortable change of atmosphere at these last few words. "He has informed me of his intentions specifically regarding matters of state," he continued, "And the full Elder and Inner Councils are to be convened so that our new Emperor may be able to reaffirm the Council positions." A wave of anxiety suddenly rippled throughout the group. The councillors looked desperately from one to another. Cries of confusion sounded. "In accordance with his last wishes!" the Chancellor asserted, "In accordance with _his last wishes!_"

"Reaffirm our positions?" a matronly Imperial woman questioned worriedly, "Chancellor, surely in light of the instability of the Empire, we must ensure _stability_ by maintaining the current membership of the Councils!"

_"But it is the Emperor's right!"_ someone shouted. There were more cries of argument. Then, the deep and gravelly voice of an Orc councillor, Boghra gra-Malog, resounated loudly through the hall:

"We will not ignore the Emperor's will, Sybilla," she spoke threateningly, her yellow eyes narrowing, "It is the Emperor's will. We _will _respect the Emperor's will." Soon, more voices began to pile on top of each other, threatening a fever pitch. Dorian took a deep breaths to calm himself. He had to salvage the situation, and fast.

"Councillors, councillors! Please! If you have performed your duties faithfully, then there is noth—" But he was interrupted by a brusque Nord named Hrafnar Axe-Shield– as it turned out, the one who had cried out earlier.

"Hear, hear!" he bellowed again, "It's not right otherwise!"

"Ugh. Is your kind even capable of prattling on about more than just honour, you stupid Nord?" a haughty and elegantly-dressed High Elf spat, pinching the bridge of his nose, "Auri-El preserve us if our Empire continues to be run by your kind!"

"Damn elf! Better than being run by _your_ kind, Volamil, you, you… snowbacked _Thalmor traitor!_"

"HOW DARE YOU! I HAVE SERVED THIS EMPIRE LOYALLY FOR MANY YEARS—"

Chancellor Dorian watched helplessly as the Inner Council now erupted into full, volatile argument. Every councillor, left, right, and centre, was now shouting at the top of their lungs, determining to be heard, pointing accusatory fingers at each other, at Dorian. Here he was, awake at some ungodly hour, the Emperor lay dead and his heir uninformed, civil unrest boiled in the few provinces still remaining in the Empire, Cyrodiil itself had not fully recovered from the damage of the Oblivion Crisis, and the sleeping beast, the Aldmeri Dominion, lay dormant, lurking across the Valenwood border, threatening to pounce at any time. And now this… _senseless squabbling_. It was all too much.

"_SILENCE!_" the High Chancellor bellowed. The councillors suddenly fell silent and turned wide-eyed to face him. Dorian fumed, his sleep-deprived eyes boiling with anger and frustration. "Now, I want you all to listen _very_ carefully," he breathed, throwing his robes back over himself. He paced up and down the closed doorway, stopping to stare each and every councillor directly in the eyes. "Summon the Moth Priests to prepare the Emperor's body for burial. Inform Prince Titus immediately of his father's death and arrange his escort back to the Imperial Palace. Make arrangements for the funeral and following coronation." He shuddered with frustration. "And _please, _for the Emperor's sake, for the Gods' sakes, and for goodness sake, _my sake_," he breathed, his voice deathly low, "Serve this Empire as is your duty, instead of bickering like a rabble of Waterfront fishwives!" And with that, the Chancellor turned his back to the stunned Council, and marched to his quarters.

Striding through the hallways away from the Council had some effect in helping Dorian to calm down. He tried to feel some relief in at least halting the inevitable argument within the Inner Council, if only for a night. And yet, a million worries still managed to worm their way into his mind. Emperor Attrebus had died so suddenly of the fever, thrusting most of his unfinished affairs onto his son and the Councils instead. _As for Prince Titus,_ Dorian thought, he had always struck him as a soldier at heart, preferring to follow his father's orders rather than give his own out himself— something which people suspected had suited Attrebus just fine. Dorian doubted if Titus even _wanted_ to be an Emperor. The poor man did not even know yet that his father was dead and now, every minor noble and their mother from High Rock to Hammerfell would set their sights on the Ruby Throne. If the factions forming within the Inner and Elder Councils didn't tear the Empire apart, then the Aldmeri Dominion surely would.

When Dorian reached the door to his quarters, he hurriedly entered and shut the door behind him. _Perhaps, if the Councils would not uphold order within the Empire_, he thought, disrobing, he hoped they would at least try to uphold the Empire itself— he could at least console himself with that. He stumbled towards his bed fell into the silken sheets. But who could he, the High Chancellor, trust? His eyelids felt heavy and began to droop. _Human races, elf races, beast races..._ The Empire was fracturing. The Councils were fracturing. _Athis __Salas_, _Sybilla, _Boghra gra-Malog___..._ Names and faces swam through his mind, mingling with all the other thoughts. _Hrafnar Axe-Shield, the Nord, __Volamil, _he recounted; _then a Breton, Victor, Victor Motierre... _A sudden anxiety forced Dorian's eyes open again: he had not seen Motierre since the beginning of the night. _Where was he? _He groaned, and buried his face in his pillow, finally allowing himself to sink deeper into the soft fabric. The High Chancellor's body soon overcame him, and he fell into a dreamless sleep.

There would be a reckoning to deal with in the future. But for now, rest.

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><p><em>AN: So guys, I hope you like my first attempt at an actual story that isn't a parody. Up until now, I've been solely a humour/parody author so this type of thing, while being really fun and challenging to write, is totally out of my comfort zone. Naturally, constructive reviews are highly appreciated, and I hope that you enjoy this story (and that it actually makes some kind of sense in someone else's head other than mine)._

_LEAVE A REVIEW. PREVENT CRAP-FIC FORMATION BEFORE IT STARTS._


	2. Imperial City - 4 Last Seed 4E 168

**THE IMPERIAL CITY  
>4th of Last Seed 4E 168<strong>

_THE BLACK HORSE COURIER:  
>DATE SET FOR EMPEROR'S FUNERAL<br>By Cyrellius Sintav_

_An official statement from the High Chancellor released this morning has confirmed that the state funeral of the Emperor Attrebus Mede II will take place within the next two weeks. Though, for security reasons, no further details could be given, the High Chancellor has stated that preparations are well underway, and that Prince Titus, the late emperor's heir, is expected to arrive the capital from the Skyrim border–_

"Are you done now, mister?"

Christophe looked up suddenly from his newspaper. The scullion boy was a poor, awkward lad with crooked teeth and pimples, like many of the other Waterfront urchins, though he had a noticeable air of adolescent boredom hanging about him.

"Well, yes, sure. Thank you," Christophe replied, still in his morning haze. The boy took the bowl, and tossed it carelessly with the other dirty plates on the cart. Christophe hadn't actually finished eating, but the bread seemed slightly stale and the slaughterfish stew today was a bit too watered down for his tastes. "You can have the bread too, if you want. I haven't touched it," Christophe said, handing the small plate to him. The poor boy looked like he needed the food. The boy took it though, instead of heading back to the kitchens, he lingered expectantly by the table, eyeing Christophe, then the bread, then Christophe again.

Finally, it clicked. "Oh, of course, sorry." Christophe reached into his pocket, and handed him two septims. "Here's your tip. Sorry it's not much, but you know…" The boy simply stared blankly at the two coins before pocketing them.

"_Thanks _mister…" he grunted, before wandering back to the kitchens. Christophe sighed. He supposed anyone would be disappointed too, with a job like this and a tip like that. The King and Queen Tavern wasn't exactly the most glamorous establishment in the Imperial City.

Putting the newspaper back on the rack, Christophe wiped his mouth with a napkin and stood up to put on his jacket. It was a fine woolen city coat with shiny silver buttons and little silver trimmings on the edges – probably cost more than what most people saw in a month. But, like most of the clothes he owned, it was only a hand-me-down from his late father – Divines keep him – not to mention the cuffs looked like they were in serious need of repair again.

"Morning, Gertild," Christophe greeted the Nord woman polishing the counter, "I'm heading off a bit early today, but thanks for the food. Oh, and morning to you too." Christophe waved to one of the other boarders at the Tavern: a retired Redguard sailor, who was currently lounging on one of the gaudy throne-shaped armchairs decking the food hall. He waved back lazily.

"Hang on, Christophe, before you go," Gertild suddenly called out, "Just wanted to remind you final payment's due tonight. Fifty septims." Christophe smacked his forehead. _The rent! _

"Oh gods, yes, of course! Yes, I– um, " he said, fumbling around for his coin purse. "I have it right here. _Ten, twenty, thirty, forty, forty-five– _"He paused. Fifty septims, with only thirty left over for the rest of the week. Christophe rummaged desperately through his pockets. Empty. He cursed quietly. "Look, I'm so, so sorry about this, Gertild," he said pleadingly, "But can it just wait 'till the end of the month? I'm applying for this job today. It pays quite well."

"Are you gonna get it?"

"Well," he began. "Yes, if things go my way. I'm well suited for this line of work, and I'm sure my soon-to-be employers will see that." Christophe looked her calmly in the eye, trying to appear confident. Well, he sure damn hoped they'd see that. He had spent a good part of his inheritance travelling all the way to the Imperial City just to work for their company; he wasn't about to let that go to waste.

Suddenly, the Redguard sailor burst into laughter, slapping his thigh.

"Stendarr preserve us…" he mocked. The publican just sighed and shook her head.

"Everyone's gotta pay on time Christophe, sorry," she said. "The King and Queen doesn't pay for itself, and young Lewin doesn't work for free– " There was the sound of wooden plates spilling all over the floor, followed by a torrent of curse words from behind the kitchen door. "_Dammit_, boy!" she bellowed, "Can you do nothing right?"

"_Sorry, sorry!" _came the eventual reply. The Redguard cackled again in his chair.

"Useless …" Gertild muttered under her breath, before turning back to face Christophe. "Like I said," she continued, "The King and Queen needs upkeep. I'm trying to keep this place the way my poor Flinjar left it, Talos rest him." The Redguard looked up from the tobacco pipe he was now trying to light.

"Well, can't say I knew 'im, but he had taste, I'll give him that," he said between breaths, before blowing out a long, thick stream of smoke. "You lad–" he turned to Christophe– "You're from Daggerfall, right?"

Christophe nodded.

"Heh. Thought so. Straight off the cart." The Redguard snorted. "I've met plenty of Bretons on my travels and let me tell you, you Daggerfall folks are always the same." Christophe frowned. He didn't know whether to take that as an insult. "Oh no, don't take it as an insult," the Redguard explained quickly, noticing Christophe's expression. "Some nasty people might call you all snobs or flaming ponces…" He drew another breath from his pipe. "But I'm not like that."

"That's good to hear," Christophe replied dryly. The Redguard laughed.

"Really, there's a certain… erm…" He paused, looking about the room. "What's-the-word… ahem, yes. There's a certain _pride_ about you Bretons, where even pox-ridden beggars fancy themselves the lords of their own dump– not that I'm calling you a pox-ridden beggar, lad. I'm just saying that there's a reason why you're 'ere at the King and Queen instead of slumming it at the Waterfront."

"Thank you, I suppose," Christophe replied again, out of a lack of anything better to say. The Redguard had a point though; he couldn't have handled living on the Waterfront like a beggar. By Sheor, he was from a well-to-do family and they still had _standards_, if a bit… temporarily embarrassed. But truth be told, he was only living at the Tavern because he couldn't afford anything better – unlike the sailor, who'd apparently _willingly_ settled down here (though Christophe suspected that decision probably had more to do with the widowed publican than anything else).

"Yes, and even Ruswick's gotta pay if he doesn't want to be slumming it at the Waterfront, _don't you, Ruswick?_" Gertild said firmly. She cocked an eyebrow at him. The Redguard sailor flashed her a coy, toothless smile, and winked.

"Oh, don't ye worry about payment m'dear," Ruswick cackled again, a rasping, wheezing laugh that sent smoke tumbling out of his mouth. Gertild rolled her eyes. Christophe noticed a slight redness in her cheeks.

"_Coin_, Ruswick," she repeated, "And you too, Chris, sorry. I'll need that money by tonight." The Redguard grumbled and lounged back in his chair. Christophe sighed.

"Of course, Gertild," Christophe replied, "I'll just– _here_. I'll just give you the rent now. I'm sorry."

"All's fine, Christophe. All's fine. We've all been down on our luck."

Christophe counted the fifty septims again and, with a pang of regret, reluctantly placed them on the counter. The remaining ten septims jiggled pitifully in his coin purse as he stuffed it back into his pocket. Gertild quickly recounted the money before stashing it under the counter. Christophe heard the metallic clink of the key in the lockbox as what little coin he had was shut away forever. It was only fair, he supposed; she was only trying to make an honest living. But if he didn't get this job today, he had no idea where to find enough money to tie him over for the week, without borrowing from some back-alley usurer or resorting to measures that would earn him a month in the Imperial Dungeons.

Maybe the King and Queen Tavern was too good for his blood?

"Hey, cheer up Breton," Ruswick called out with a smirk. "This is the Imperial City. Anything's possible."

The sounds and smells of the city in its morning rush came flooding into his senses. Despite having grown up in another capital, Christophe still found himself swallowed up in the hustle and bustle of the Imperial crowd. An endless array of stalls lined the streets, stocked with all manner of goods from every corner of the province: fresh slaughterfish from Lake Rumare, fine wines and cheeses from the West Weald, fruits and vegetables from the Nibenay Valley, and crates of furs and pelts from Bruma in the far north. People from all walks of life – rich or poor, common or noble – all rushed together in one bustling mass; all of them looking to snag the best deals in the marketplace. It was all rather odd for Christophe, but a little exciting nonetheless. Back in High Rock, people usually just sent their servants out for these kinds of menial tasks.

He could barely see for all the people rushing about, but he could just make out the names of various shops as he weaved his way through the busy streets. "Stonewall Shields, Edgar's Discount Spells… the Office of Commerce_–_ no thanks, I'm in a rush." Christophe politely brushed off a Dunmer trying to hand him a pamphlet. _Merchant's Inn, A Fighting Chance… Where was it again– _"Ah, here!" He crossed the pavement and turned the corner into a small side street, following it as it curved through a large stone atrium containing a few shops and offices. Above one of the doors hung a weathered wooden signboard:

_THE BLACK HORSE COURIER – CYRODIIL'S OLDEST NEWSPAPER_

_Well, this is the place_, Christophe thought, looking around. The building was a lot less grand than he expected, considering the Black Horse Courier was supposed to be the most established newspaper in Cyrodiil. The grey marble walls hadn't been scrubbed in a while, and he could see bits of old iron machinery and discarded papers lying just around the back.

Well, it definitely _looked _like Cyrodiil's oldest newspaper.

Nearby, two burly Orcs were unloading huge clay jugs of ink from a cart, heaving them onto the ground as if they were filled with nothing more than air. Seeing Christophe approach the door, they sniggered mean-spiritedly, eying him up like a chunk of meat. Christophe refused to look them in the eye.

_Gods_, he thought to himself nervously. Great-Grandmother Matilde would roll in her grave if she found out any family of hers was scrounging around for work in a place like this. Then again, according to his father, her efforts to socialise the family back to wealth had famously resulted in her being murdered during a soirée (along with all the other unfortunate guests). _No_, Christophe thought. He'd work for his money himself, and there was no better place to do it than here, doing something he liked.

Quickly brushing back his mousy hair with his fingers, he took a deep breath, and opened the door.

"Look boys, just dump those crates downstairs with the others. There's no room up here."

A Wood Elf was sitting at the front desk, busily scratching away at a leger with a quill. Her messy, dirty blonde hair was hastily tied up with a leather strap, and her ink-stained sleeves were scrunched right up to her elbows. She had a waifish look about her that made her seem rather approachable, but despite her demeanour, she didn't look very young. Then again, Christophe could never tell with elves.

"Basement door's open, I'm sure you can manage– " She raised her eyes momentarily and noticed Christophe standing in the doorway. "Oh, I'm sorry!" she said, quickly bolting upright in her chair. "I didn't see you there. Welcome to the Black Horse Courier. Can I help you?" She smiled, flashing her teeth.

"Um, yes, good morning," Christophe greeted back, feeling slightly perturbed, "I'm Christophe Petit. I'm looking for employment here. I heard you were recruiting?" He reached into his coat pocket, and produced a folded parchment. He'd spent a whole two weeks trying to perfect his credentials, making sure they properly reflected his good education and were as flattering as possible (within the bounds of honesty, of course).

"You heard right," she replied, taking it off his hands. "Right now what we really need are extra workers down at the press– that pays fifty a month, if you're interested." She paused, and eyed him head to toe, as if sizing him up. "But, I'm guessing you're not after that kind of work." Christophe couldn't quite put his finger on it but there was definitely something mischievous about this friendly Wood Elf. Then, to his surprise, she unfolded the parchment and began to look over it herself.

"I'm applying as a journalist," he continued, watching the Wood Elf curiously. "Preferably writing columns, but I'm willing to take on other writing jobs as well."

"Uh huh…" she muttered absentmindedly.

"Well, you'll see I've a decent amount of writing experience. I used to spend most of my summers writing religious pamphlets for the Chapel in Daggerfall…" He discreetly tried to loosen his collar. Was it just him, or was the room was feeling increasingly stuffier? He looked around. The only windows were high up on the wall and none of them were open. _No wonder everyone just walks around here in their shirts_, he thought, noticing a courier hurriedly brush past him. He wanted desperately to take his coat off, but decided against it for the meantime.

"Why didn't you apply at the Temple of the One then?" the Wood Elf asked after some time, "Or did you?"

Christophe paused. Something told him she was trying to catch him out. He had to consider his answer carefully.

"I wanted something a bit more from my work," he replied, "The Chapel wasn't exactly my cup of tea."

"Too boring?"

Christophe chuckled. "No, not exactly," he said, "It was a bit slow, that's all." Perhaps it was better not to mention how many times the priests chastised him for falling asleep at his desk.

Suddenly, the Wood Elf handed the parchment back to Christophe, taking him by surprise. He worriedly fumbled to put it back in his pocket. "Well, we do need writers right now," she replied, "You'll have to speak with Ja'harri about that though. He runs things here. Most people around here are busy, but I could find someone to show you up, if you'll wait just a second." Christophe relaxed a little. This was a good sign… he hoped.

As if on cue, one of the doors suddenly swung open and a middle-aged Imperial strode into the foyer, busily flicking through a leather notebook as he made his way towards the stairs.

"_Just in time_. Hey, Cyrellius!" Carwen called out. "Do you have a moment?" The Imperial stopped and looked up. He looked a good twenty years older than Christophe; his dark hair was flecked with streaks of grey, and crows' feet were beginning to form at the corners of his eyes. But from the way he carried himself so casually and confidently around the place, he didn't seem some disillusioned old worker, caught in the rat race of the Imperial City. If this 'Ja'harri' fellow wasn't so obviously a Khajiit, Christophe could've swore this man owned the place.

"Sure, I have a moment," he replied coolly, noticing Christophe waiting by the front desk.

"Great! Because Mister… err… Mister Petit here is looking to work as a writer here, and needs to see Ja'harri."

"Ja'harri? Sure," the Imperial replied again, "I think it'll be best if show him up." He flashed a smile at Christophe. "Cyrellius Sintav. I'm the lead journalist here at the Courier. You might've read some of my articles." He held out his hand.

"Christophe Petit," Christophe replied, a little struck. Cyrellius Sintav was quite well known, even in Daggerfall. Christophe hadn't expected to actually meet him in person like this. He returned the handshake, though a little less confidently than he had hoped. The Imperial's grip was firm and decisive. He motioned for Christophe to follow him.

"Well, " Christophe started, trailing behind the older man, "I'm very familiar with your work actually, Mister Sintav. I read your obituary for the Emperor a few days ago, and your other article this morning. I enjoyed them very much."

"Did you? Well, that's very nice. You can take your jacket off, by the way. This isn't the Palace." Christophe felt his face turn hot. He laughed nervously, quickly unbuttoning his coat and folding it over his arm.

"I've always wanted to be a journalist, you see, ever since I was a young boy," he continued, struggling to keep up with Cyrellius as they strode through the narrow hallway. "In fact, I moved all the way from Daggerfall to the Imperial City just to work for the Black Horse Courier." They turned the corner, past some other couriers carrying freshly printed bundles of newspapers.

"How old are you?" Cyrellius asked him suddenly.

"Twenty this year."

"Wow. Big risk, kid, making a move like that," the Imperial replied. He seemed slightly impressed. "You couldn't have come at a better time though. We need more writers here, and at my position, they pay well." Then, as if the Divines wanted to prove the truth of his words, they passed a windowed room filled with rows and rows of wooden work desks, most of which were unoccupied. Only a few older-looking employees remained, buried under piles of paperwork. It made Christophe feel slightly nervous. Hopefully, this wasn't the result of some kind of mass sacking in the past.

"Look, I'll level with you, just so you know exactly what you're getting into," Cyrellius began, his tone turning serious. "If this place looks relatively empty, that's because it is. This place used to run directly off Elder Council subsidies until about ten or so years ago. Then, there was a bit of scare with the Altmer down south– nothing _that _big, otherwise we'd all be dead, but enough that the Council had to reallocate funds towards the Legion. So, the Council cut the funds, profits dipped, people went out the door, and Ja'harri, our lovely boss who you will meet soon... let's just say, picked up some less than savoury habits."

_Less than savoury habits? _Perhaps it was better not to inquire about that.

"Alright," Christophe replied slowly, trying to process everything. "Gosh, it's a lot of information to take in. How… how does the Courier stay in business then?"

"It's actually quite simple. We write good stories that sell well– that's where we come in– and private benefactors. So keep everyone happy, and you'll be rich. Annoy the wrong person, and, well… just don't annoy the wrong person, alright?" The Imperial looked over at Christophe, who was standing with a slightly bewildered expression on his face. "Still think you're up for it?"

Some unwanted doubts began to creep into Christophe's mind. "This place seems to have have more internal politics than the court at Daggerfall!" he joked nervously. He desperately hoped he hadn't made a huge mistake coming here. "But I've always wanted to work at a place like the Courier. Besides, I can hardly make the trip all the way back to High Rock, can I?"

The Imperial shrugged. "No, no I suppose you can't."

"Well, is there a good chance Ja'harri will still employ me, with all these problems going on?" Christophe asked again.

"Ha. I did say we needed writers, didn't I?" Cyrellius replied dryly.

"Of course."

"And Carwen wouldn't have sent you up here is she hadn't thought Ja'harri would find you worth hiring." They finally reached the end of the hallway. At the end was a lone wooden door with the words _'Office of the_ _Editor' _were plastered ominously on the front. "So, now you can ask him yourself if you think you're worth it." He shot Christophe a wry grin, then knocked three times on the door.

"_What! Who iss it…?"_ came a raspy voice from the other side.

"Cyrellius, with one Mister Christophe Petit. Says he's interested in working with us as a writer." Silence.

"_All rrright. Let him innnn."_

Christophe looked at Cyrellius worriedly. "Go on," Cyrellius beckoned, "Remember, negotiate hours first, pay later. Straighten up, and smile. Don't let him smell the fear on you."

Christophe nodded bewilderedly. _Smell… the fear?_ _By the gods, what had he gotten himself into?_

"Thank you," he said meekly. Steadying himself, he placed his hand on the doorknob.

"And, by the way," the Imperial spoke, "Should everything go just as planned in there, let me be the first to formally welcome you to the team here at the Black Horse Courier."


	3. Cheydinhal - 15 Last Seed, 4E 168

**CHEYDINHAL  
>15th of Last Seed, 4E 168<strong>

* * *

><p>For what seemed like the hundredth time, Alarin had to shake himself awake to keep himself from dozing off. <em>I<em> r_eally should have cast that Stamina spell before I walked into here... _he thought sorely. For a young Altmer with centuries ahead of him, the chapel sermon just seemed to go on and on_ and on_. The whole era could have passed him by, for all he knew.

Alarin looked around the chapel, wondering how everyone else was coping. Of course, the usual Imperial, Breton, Redguard, and Nord families had filled up the pews closest to the Primate, who– by the Gods– was _still_ taking about Arkay! _How much could one person possibly talk about Arkay?_ Near the rear of the chapel, there were a few ragged beggars sitting near the doorway, some off-duty guardsmen quietly chatting to each other near the back, and, unsurprisingly, only one Dunmer, who, judging from the state of him, was only here because he had just wandered in drunk from the Newlands Lodge the night before and passed out right on the floor. Alarin yawned.

_Gods, this chapel stuff was boring._ He imagined it was partly the reason why his father never wanted to attend these things. Alarin thought of all the other things he could have been doing instead. He could have stayed at home and practised his spells. He could have sat down in the park and finished his book. He could have gone fishing in the river with Releth and Nedene Lythandas. He could have gone back to sleep… He could have… he could…

_"Alarin!"_

A loud whisper beside him brought him back. He rubbed his eyes and turned to find his mother's honey-coloured eyes staring right him.

_"Sorry, mum,"_ Alarin mouthed quietly. His mother shook her head and chuckled quietly, turning to face the front again. The Primate's voice continued to drone on through the chapel. Alarin slumped back in his seat.

Come to think of it, his mother never really enjoyed going to the chapel either. Even though she'd grown up in Cyrodiil, she never really struck him as the type to be very devoted to the Nine Divines– apparently, she never even visited the chapel once back in her Mages' Guild days. His mother seemed to just… _attend_.

_"Go now, under the light of the Divines, under the love of Arkay, to love and serve them, the Empire, and each other!"_ the Primate's voice finally echoed throughout the chapel. The congregation began to rise out of their seats.

"All glory to the Divines!" they cried out in unison.

_'All glory to the Divines' finally!_ Alarin practically leapt out of his seat– a little too eagerly, it seemed. He felt his mother quickly place a warm hand over his shoulder.

"Well, that's over now," she chirped as they walked out from the pews, "Let's head home. Your father is probably waiting for us, and I think left the calcinator on..." Alarin smiled in relief as they began to make their way towards the exit.

"Ah, Eilonwy!" a familiar droning voice suddenly called out from behind them. Alarin reluctantly let his mother turn them around, where they saw the old Imperial Primate plodding through down the aisle towards them.

_Oh come on!_

"Primate Godric! What a lovely sermon you gave today," his mother replied cordially, "I, _um_, especially enjoyed the part about Arkay." Alarin tried to suppress a laugh, but the Primate didn't seem to notice.

"It is only fitting that we praise Arkay in these troubled times, to aid our late Emperor's soul on its journey to Aetherius," he said. Alarin noticed when the Primate wasn't droning on in some endless sermon, his voice was extremely fruity, in an obnoxious, self-righteous kind of way. "And I am especially glad," the Primate continued, "That young Alarin here has decided to join us!"

"Huh?" Alalrin stuttered. He didn't expect the Primate to actually _talk_ to him. "Oh, yeah – I mean, _yes_," Alarin stammered, "Chapel, yeah. Praise Arkay! Ahem." His mother squeezed him on the shoulder: gentle, but firm. That was usually the signal for him to stop talking.

"My son tries to visit the chapel whenever he can," she answered for him cheerfully. She tucked a few loose strands of fawny-coloured hair back behind her ear and smiled.

"Ah good, good!" the Primate said, nodding his head approvingly at Alarin, "The Gods are always pleased when the young give thanks at the chapel!"

_Pfft_, Alarin thought impatiently, _Once in a millenium, maybe. _His mother never really insisted on him going, although she had a tendency to drag him there whenever she felt he "wasn't being productive" and slacking off his magical studies. Looking around the chapel, he suddenly became aware that most of the chapel-goers had already left. Other than the unconscious Dunmer in the back corner, only he, his mother, and the Imperial Primate remained. For a few moments, there was an awkward silence between the three of them. Alarin fiddled with his hands impatiently, itching to get out of the chapel and away from the obnoxious priest already. But the Primate was speaking again:

"Well, speaking of," he continued hesitantly, "I hope you do not mind, Eilonwy, but I just could not help but notice that your husband does not attend chapel…often much? Forgive me for asking, but, ah, is there any particular reason _why_?" The question caught both Alarin and his mother completely off guard. Alarin saw her cheerful expression drop slightly. She gave a nervous laugh.

"Oh, my husband!" she said quickly, "Orintur regrets it so much, but he's just always so busy with his research! Ever since the Guild was closed down, he's had to work much harder. Those scrolls take so long to create, and the ones he makes are just _so advanced_. He just never really has the time…" More silence.

Alarin and his mother knew that was only half-true; his father probably never set foot in an Imperial chapel in his life. He was a Summerset Altmer, born and raised, although, come to think of it, he never seemed very devoted to the Altmeri gods either. Or any gods, really. Something in the Primate's demeanour hinted that he didn't entirely believe his mother either.

"But Eilonwy," he spoke tentatively, "I see you and your son at chapel, but surely your husband knows how important it is to for anyone to make time for the Divines?" Eilonwy cocked her head.

"In what way, Primate Godric?" she asked, hint of defensiveness rising in her voice.

"_Well_," he explained slowly, "When one works with alchemy, such as you do, you create magic using the gifts nature already provides us. However, there are just some schools of magic that are more, ah, _feared_ than others. I am simply concerned." Alarin rolled his eyes.

_This was stupid._ What was so bad about Alteration? It was hardly Destruction magic. Besides, nothing ever went wrong with any of the spells his father used, Alteration or otherwise.

"But I've seen Orintur work all the time," his mother responded, "He's one of the best casters in the whole of Cyrodiil. He's highly respected by mages from around the province." Her voice was always soft, but she spoke with conviction – it was something Alarin noticed she always did when it came to defending his father and his work.

"I am sorry, Eilonwy. You may not want to believe it, but magic is still quite feared by many," the Primate spoke gravely, "And this fear has not disappeared with the Mages' Guild. You are a talented alchemist and your husband is, from what I understand, a brilliant mage, but it is concerning that he chooses not to be seen in chapel." Alarin's brow furrowed. Sure, a few superstitious old codgers disapproved of his family's association with the Mage's Guild, but his father was hardly some crooked necromancer hunched over a pile of corpses. Alarin looked to his mother, but her demeanour had noticeably fallen.

"I know… I know…" she said quietly. "Thank you, Primate Godric. I'm sure he'll appreciate your concern. I'll ask him again once I get home."

"We may all need the Gods more in the coming days, and we must all pray to keep them there. As Primate of Arkay, it is my sacred duty to look after all of the Divines' children," he exclaimed proudly, "Even if they themselves may not look to the Divines..."

_Agh_, Alarin thought. He hated this guy.

Alarin's mother, however, gave the Primate a small smile then, putting a hand around Alarin, they headed for the chapel door.

"But you will ask your husband to come to chapel more often?" the Primate suddenly called out from behind them.

"I'll talk with him about it."

"Ah, good! If you ask, he _will_ listen," he said, "Blessings to you all."

"Blessings to you too."

The midday sun had already settled high in the sky by the time they finally stepped out through the chapel door and into the town square. The street vendors were already beginning to reduce the price of their wares. Alarin huffed. He felt irritated that so much of the day had been wasted.

"Mum..." he asked at length.

"Yes, dear?" she replied, as the two of them walked along the cobbled streets.

"That was boring," Alarin said. Best his mother heard it from his own mouth. Surprisingly, she laughed in response.

"Oh, it always is," she replied, chuckling. They passed a toothless old beggar sitting on the curb.

"Alms!" he growled, and rattled a tin bucket impatiently. She dropped a coin into the bucket as they passed.

"So, you're not really going to make dad go to chapel. Like you make me?" Alarin continued. His mother tutted.

"Don't be silly, Alarin," she said, "I don't _make _you go to chapel, and I'm not going to _make _your father go either. It's just good– for us, I mean– to be seen there every now and again."

"So people don't think we're crazy warlocks, right?" he asked half-jokingly.

"Well, um... yes, I suppose," his mother replied pensively, "You could put it that way..." She was silent after that.

It was some time later before they arrived back home– or, as Alarin's family affectionately called it, Willow Bank. It was a cozy wood-beam house on the very edge of the town walls, sitting in between a worn old statue of Vanus Galerion– the founder of the now-defunct Mages' Guild– and the lazy banks of the Corbolo River that ran through Cheydinhal. Alarin quickly wiped his feet on the welcome mat, and entered the front door. From the outside, their home was one of the larger ones in town, but it seemed much smaller on the inside, filled to the brim with his parents' research. As soon as he stepped into the living room, a noxious herbal scent furrowed its way into his nostrils. He gagged– his mother _had_ left the calcinator on.

"Oh my!" she cried out, rushing quickly to take the mixture off the fire, "Drat. I won't be able to sell this batch now." She tipped the burnt contents of the calcinator out a nearby window.

Except for a small fireplace in the back wall for cooking, nearly every room in their home was lined floor to ceiling in bookshelves, each one packed with books, scrolls, and the boxes of alchemical potions Alarin's mother had arranged for delivery to the marketplace on weekdays. Next to the shelves, in front of a huge sealed bookcase, was his father's desk, covered almost entirely in tall columns of thick leather folders containing decades of his accumulated magical research.

"Eilonwy, Alarin? Is that you?" a voice suddenly called out from upstairs. Alarin looked up as his father appeared above the balcony railing, then reappeared again on the top landing before slowly making his way down the stairs, precariously balancing another stack of research folders in his hands. He quickly dropped the stack on his desk with a loud _thud_.

"_There_," his father breathed, "Now I can finally make a start on this thing!" He dusted off his hands. For an Altmer only in his middle years, Alarin's father looked severely overworked. His chestnut hair was already turning silver at the temples, and there were even a few dark circles forming under his brown eyes. Yet, despite it all, he always managed to sit up straight while working, always kept his hair slicked back behind his ears, and his cotton blouse - the one Alarin swore his father wore almost every day - was always clean and neatly folded up to the elbows to avoid ink stains or accidentally singeing off the edge of the sleeves with spells. It was the kind of effortless Altmer poise and bearing that could have only come out of Alinor.

"Hello, son. Hello, love," he said happily. He gave Alarin a quick hug and kissed his wife on the cheek. "What took you two so long?"

"Oh," Eilonwy replied, "We had a little chat with the Primate."

"Hmm… That's nice." Orintur settled down at his desk, and flicked through one of the leather folders on his desk, occasionally stopping at a page to read it. "And how was it?"

"Good, good. It was all very good. Very interesting." she replied again. Orintur nodded his head then slowly looked back to his notes. Alarin couldn't help but notice the awkward silence. His mother, very quietly, cleared her throat. _No reaction._ She cleared her throat again, louder this time. His father didn't look up, still concentrating intensely what was written on the page. Alarin took a step forward.

_"Dad…"_ he said, tapping him on the shoulder.

"Sorry, sorry!" Orintur jumped up suddenly, tearing his eyes from the page, "You were saying something, love?"

"Well," Eilonwy spoke, clasping her hands together, "I was actually wondering if you would consider… visiting the chapel one day? You don't have to be there _every_ Sundas, dear, but maybe just a few times a month?"

"Oh. The chapel," Orintur replied, "Well... I'll see if I have time. I'm working on a brand new research project, and it's thrown my schedule off completely." He sat up in his chair. "Besides," he continued, "You know me, I've never really been one for the Imperial chapel. I mean, you grew up here in Cyrodiil, dear, and Alarin's lived in Cheydinhal all his life, but my family all worshipped the Altmeri gods. It just wouldn't feel right if I started getting into, you know, the Nine Divines." Eilonwy sighed, and, nodding her head, patted her husband on the shoulder.

"I know, dear. But if you ever feel like visiting the chapel, just let me know," she said, "I'm just worried about…about what people _think_ about you and your work. That's all." Orintur raised an eyebrow. Presumably Eilonwy was referring to the small incident with the drunk Nord last month, or was it the one with the Orc two weeks ago?

"Worried? Oh, don't be!" he laughed, reaching over to rub his wife's arm.

"He almost _broke your nose_, Orintur..." she warned.

"_Pssh. _It was nothing one of your healing potions couldn't fix. Besides," he continued, "Whatever people say, if the time comes they'll need defensive spells, they'll have to come to me. Practical shield spells aren't easy to come by these days, what with Battlemage Salas ordering every single one that pops up for the Imperial Battle College." He quickly flicked through one of the folders. "Anyway," he added, "I don't think the gods are going to banish me to Oblivion either for working with something one of _them_ gave to us in the first place!"

"Magnus, right?" Alarin piped up.

"Correct! Well done, my boy! I see you've been studying," his father said. He chuckled quietly then turned quickly back to his work. Alarin's mother opened her mouth to say something but quickly decided not to press the matter further. There was a short silence.

_"_Well…_"_ she spoke up, changing the subject, "This new research of yours, dear, what's it about?"

_That_ got his attention.

"Oh? _This_?" Orintur took out a long piece of parchment and rolled it out over the whole surface of the desk. "These are my initial designs for a new shield spell that will be able to absorb _one-hundred percent_ of physical damage but for only _half_ the magicka cost of a spell of that magnitude! Isn't it exciting?" He exclaimed. He stood up, and pointed at a few symbols on the parchment. "_These_, I'm not too sure about, but I've finally finished gathering all of my relevant past research _here_– " He patted the stack of folders on the desk. "– And if I could use them to improve the some of the weaker shield spells I've already created and use them to create a prototype, this spell would be the strongest and most effective of its kind!"

Alarin looked over the parchment in awe. He had a hard enough time understanding his mother's research notes on advanced alchemy, but his father's notes were always something else. Nearly every surface of the parchment was covered in a flurry of diagrams, scribblings, and obscure, arcane symbols only some of which Alarin could even begin to understand.

"It's brilliant," he said, "Really, dad, it is." His father smiled at him.

"Thank you, son," he replied, putting an arm around Alarin's shoulder, "I'm glad you think that way."

"Maybe when you finish it, you could teach it to me?" Alarin said, "I mean, I think my studies are going along pretty well. I could probably do it if I practised a lot." His father simply shrugged.

"Oh, I think you've got a lot more studying to do before you go around trying to cast spells like this!" Alarin's mother chuckled teasingly. Alarin frowned slightly. He liked to think, especially being an Altmer and all, that he'd at least inherited a certain magical prowess from his mage parents, even if it didn't show much yet. He sighed. She was probably right anyway_._ It would likely be another decade of practice before he could do the kind of magic his parents worked with.

"Orintur, your designs look fantastic!" his mother continued, looking up from the parchment, "And I, _oh–_ " She suddenly hesitated, chewing her lip. "Look, dear, I really don't want to bother you about this again, but you really _should_ consider sending this one off when it's done." Alarin's father shook his head.

"Please, Eilonwy," he said, his voice dropping to a low murmur, "I threw that letter out last week. I really don't want anything to do with them."

_The Synod._ Alarin didn't know much the shadowy group of mages, other than that they were the strongest of the two splinter organisations that had formed in the wake of the dissolution of the Mages' Guild, and that they held the Elder Council's ear. And, ever since his father published a big treatise on Galerion's Magical Axioms back in 153, they had been pestering him about joining their organisation for years now. He never published another treatise after that.

"They're nothing like the mages at Crystal-Like-Law, or even our old Guild friends," he continued, "Now, both are gone and there won't be any guilds like them again." Alarin's father stared wistfully down at his desk. "Eilonwy, the Synod couldn't care less about scholarship or magical research. All they care about is politics and fighting with that damned College of Whispers."

"I know, Orintur," she said, "But think of all this research of yours being hidden away." She gestured to the piles of leather folders in the desk, then at the bookshelves. "All that research you did on the Conservation of Magicka? And your essay on Vanto's Second Law of Alteration? It's just such a shame." Alarin's rubbed his eyes.

"Maybe it is, but you know me," he said, "I don't even care about the septims anymore. I just don't trust the Synod with my work. Who knows what they'll use it for?"

"But you can't work freelance forever," Alarin's mother pressed, "I don't like them any more than you do but at least with them you'll have another guild behind you!" A watery glaze began to form in the corners of her eyes. "At least take out a commission from the Imperial Battle College! You can do all your research without worrying about what anyone else thinks!"

"But I don't worry about what anyone else thinks!" Alarin's father suddenly stood up from his desk and took both of his wife's hands. "Oh, Eilonwy…" he said lovingly, "You're always so worried about me. You shouldn't worry."

"Oh, only because I love you so much, dear!" she sniffled, and, throwing her arms around his neck, leaned in to kiss him. Alarin quickly turned away.

"Oh, come on!" he said, covering his eyes, "Could you please not do that kind of stuff when I'm around?" He stepped around blindly for a while, before making an awkward dash towards the front door, his father and mother laughing behind him.

"Eilonwy, my love!" his father exclaimed, just before Alarin shut the door, "You and our boy don't make me regret leaving Alinor one bit!"


	4. Battlehorn Castle - 19 Last Seed 4E 168

**BATTLEHORN CASTLE, THE COLOVIAN HIGHLANDS  
>19th of Last Seed, 4E 168<strong>

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><p>The nine o'clock morning sun had just risen above the canopy of the Great Forest as a hot-blooded Colovian youth of twenty-five galloped at breakneck speed down the Black Road from Chorrol. His golden hair, usually brushed, was now blowing wildly in the breeze, his crimson velvet doublet hastily tied together, and as for his fine leather riding gloves, there was no accounting for those any more.<p>

_Shit. Shit. Shit_, he cursed to himself, _I've overslept!_ His steed snorted and whinnied as they rode on past the edge of the Great Forest. The imposing stone battlements of his family's ancestral home, Battlehorn Castle, gradually came into view, rising from beyond the rolling hills of the Imperial Reserve. It was a fierce and wildly beautiful sight, typical of old Colovia, but there was no time for admiring the view this time. With a yelp, the young man spurred his horse onwards.

Fortunately, he reached the castle gatehouse only less than twenty minutes later. Luck seemed to be running his way– the portcullis had been left open. He gave a sigh of relief, and slowed down to a trot to enter the courtyard. But that luck was soon to run out. Without warning, a man-at-arms suddenly called out from the battlements:

"Master Octavian!"

Octavian cringed. _Blow a bloody fanfare, why don't you? _He had hoped to just slip in quietly without anyone noticing. Cursing under his breath, he quickly dismounted, and immediately made for the back doors of the castle. However, before he could enter, he heard a bright voice suddenly call out from behind him:

"Brother!"

In a flurry of champagne-coloured curls and Breton silk, his young sister, Julia, bounded through the courtyard with her skirts in her hands. Not even stopping to let him a word, she threw her hands around him and held him tight.

"I was so worried when Mother told me that the servants found your bed empty this morning!" she laughed, feigning a swoon. She snatched up Octavian's hand and pressed it to one of her cheeks. "See, my face has gone all hot from worry, and I will look old and wrinkly soon if you keep disappearing like this!"

Octavian sighed and gazed down at Julia. Her bright blue eyes stared right back at him. He chuckled to himself. When his sister was just a little girl, the puppy eyes she made could have melted even the sternest of hearts– she could have even charmed a Daedra, if she tried. If he had not lived with her all her life and learnt her ways, they might just have had the same effect on him now that she was eighteen. _By Tiber Septim_, his little sister was almost all grown up. Octavian's jaw tightened. It wouldn't be long before she'd be married off to some fat lordling twit for a slice of the family fortune. But he quickly put the repulsive thought out of his mind.

"I'm sorry I worried you, little sis," he said, managing a smile, "I won't do it again if I can help it." Julia smoothed over her flaxen hair, trying to make it catch in the sunlight.

"Well, I'm glad, brother," she chirped. Then, noticing the morning sun beating down on her, she shielded her face with her hands. "Now, I must get out of this sun!" she laughed playfully. As if on cue, one of the maidservants quickly appeared by her side with a lacy parasol. Julia took it, and twirled it in her small hands. "It wouldn't do for me to look like a Redguard, now, would it?" she said teasingly, turning to meet her brother's gaze. Octavian frowned slightly. _Did she just…?_

"Octavian."

A cool voice from behind him interrupted his thoughts. He turned around.

"Good morning, Mother," he greeted politely, walking towards the pavilion she was resting in, seated on her favourite garden chair with her pocket Anuad. Octavian's mother, Pavia Quintillius, was an elegant, dark-haired Nibenean of forty-three, and had once even been a renowned beauty in her youth, with her high forehead and straight, sharp nose. Her features now had thinned somewhat with age, adding a slight haughtiness to her expression however, the upper-class life she led as a respected Legion Commander's daughter and later, as a Colovian nobleman's wife, meant that the years barely showed.

"I don't know where you have been, but you missed breakfast with us, my dear son," she said, holding out her slender hands. Octavian took them, and kissed his mother on both cheeks. She was always a stickler for manners and protocol."Your father was looking for you this morning. He said it was important."

_Uh oh. _Octavian's brow furrowed.

"Why?"

"He would not tell me yet. He wanted to tell you first– you know how he is."

"And where is he, Mother?"

"In his study, with your brother. You should hurry, and– my goodness, Octavian – make yourself presentable! You look like a mess."

Octavian quickly thanked his mother, and turned, pushing open the large castle doors before the guards could open them for him, and leaping up the grand stone staircase two steps at a time. He tried flattening his hair and straightening his doublet as best he could while striding briskly down the hallway. It was one thing that he had kept his father waiting, but the fact that his mischievous younger brother _hadn't_ was another– no doubt he'd brag about it until the next Era.

As Octavian quickly turned the corner leading to his father's study, he almost bumped head-first into his brother, who was lurking just outside the door. _Well, speak of Mehrunes Dagon…_

"Well, that took you long enough! Father's getting impatient, but he just _insisted_ you were there. He made me wait out here to see if you were home already."

"Obviously I am, Marcus," Octavian replied briskly, "Let's not keep him waiting any longer." Marcus stared at Octavian incredulously.

"Ha. That's rich, coming from you," he quipped. Octavian rolled his eyes, and tried to push past his brother to open the door. To his surprise, Marcus stepped in to block his way. Octavian glared at him.

"You're looking smug. Are you trying to keep me here to make Father angry at me?" he breathed impatiently.

"Oh, _please_," Marcus scoffed. He waved his hand dismissively. "He's _always _angry, there's nothing we can really do about it. I just love seeing the look on your face when you're annoyed– "

"Nothing _you _try to do about it," Octavian replied quickly, turning to his brother, "It's as if you don't even care if you disappoint him." Marcus simply shrugged, and lazily flipped a stray strand of dark hair out of his face.

"Well, perks of being the second son, I guess…"

"But you're still his son."

"Yes, but he cares a lot less about what I get up to." Octavian ignored him, and tried to push through the door again but Marcus blocked his path once more. His usually-bored expression suddenly turned into a wry grin, and his voice dropped down to a low, mischievous whisper.

"_You_, my dear brother, weren't in this morning. I figured you'd spent the night with that Redguard of yours." Octavian froze at the doorway. Then, slowly, he turned, looking his younger brother directly in the eyes.

"I have no clue what you're talking about." he said flatly, trying not to let any hint of emotion show in his voice. Infuriatingly, Marcus simply shook his head, and snorted.

"Pfft. come off it. You can't hide something like that from me." Octavian could feel the hairs on the back of his neck bristle. _Was that a threat? _His eyes narrowed.

"Oh, how so?"

"Hmm? Oh, some of the other girls told me about it last week," Marcus replied nonchalantly, "Like I said, you can't hide something like _that _from me."

If he wasn't in the precarious position of possibly being blackmailed by his younger brother, Octavian could have laughed out loud. _Shameless!_

"Well," he breathed, straightening his collar, "I suppose you've already told Father all about it, then. Even our little sister seems to know." To his surprise, Marcus shook his head.

"I wouldn't know how she'd know, seeing as I haven't told anyone this time– oh, you owe me for this one," he smirked. Octavian rolled his eyes. _Typical. _

"I told him you were out because you'd gone for an early morning ride, and," Marcus smirked, "Once you think about it, that's not entirely untrue either…"

"Shut it."

Marcus threw back his head and laughed, only to be cut short as Octavian pushed his irritating brother aside to finally open the door to their father's study.

For a private room that rarely anyone but the family and a few servants saw, the study was possibly the most well-furnished room in the entire castle. The walls were draped floor-to-ceiling with fine tapestries, and the hardwood floors were dressed with antique carpets, imported from every corner of Tamriel. Curiously for a study, the room was noticeably not lined bookshelves, but with glass display cases and weapon racks, all filled with family heirlooms, ancestral weapons, and old war medals from over a century of family Legion service. But by far, the most impressive was the roaring fireplace in the centre of the room, and perched above it, the pride of the castle – the original coat of arms of the family's legendary founder, the Champion of Cyrodiil.

Octavian and his brother walked into their father's study to find their father standing in front of the fire: Sir Augustus Antonius – a proud, strong-jawed Colovian nobleman. The flames seemed to illuminate his hard features; a spitting image of Octavian, but older and sterner, with fifty years of experience furrowed into his brow.

"Finally!" he breathed impatiently, "Where in Oblivion were you?" Octavian could almost feel his brother side-eyeing him mischievously.

"Um, _out, _Father," he replied. His father raised a thick eyebrow. "Out riding in the Reserve. It is not as hot in the early morning, and– "

"I know. I've been informed," Sir Augustus spoke brusquely, "I wanted to hear what you would tell me." His steely blue gaze fixed itself on his eldest son. It was the kind of gaze that Octavian saw his father use on the men-at-arms when they had been drinking too much on duty. In his younger years, Octavian remembered being terrified of that gaze, but now, it seemed more disciplinary– something he could draw strength from.

"Never mind," his father said at length, "Now, to what I called you both here for…" He pulled out a letter with large wax seal stamped with the Imperial dragon insignia. "This was just delivered after breakfast." Octavian took the letter from him, and unfolded it. Marcus peered over his brother's shoulder.

"An Elder Council summons?" Marcus quipped, "Ha. The Emperor's been dead for over two weeks. I'm surprised the Council even took this long to send them off."

"With that soft idiot Dorian acting as Chancellor, what do you expect?" Augustus snapped. Marcus gave out a loud snort but shrank back at one look from his father.

"You'll be leaving for the Imperial City soon then, Father?" Octavian asked.

"Immediately after supper," Augustus replied, "The Chancellor is pushing Titus to replace the membership of the Inner and Elder Councils after the coronation– I will not be late. I refuse to be thrown out like some… stray animal!" Octavian cringed. He couldn't help but feel the relevance of the last comment on himself. But his father was a very transparent man; something was clearly wrong.

"_Replace the membership?_" he inquired, "Does Titus even have the power to do such a thing?"

"Yes," Augustus answered gruffly, "But I suspect it is not the Emperor, but the _Chancellor_ who is truly behind this. Dorian is no leader. He never once held a sword in his hand, he never donned armour in his life. He spent all his time with books and scrolls, and now that Attrebus' death has weakened his position further, he is turning to his books and scrolls again. He thinks to use Council procedure to expel his opponents before they can expel him!"

"Exploiting the laws of the Empire," mused Marcus, "Shrewd."

"It is not," Octavian shot quickly, "It's dishonourable." He looked up worriedly at his father. "Would… would he try to expel you, Father?" Sir Augustus' gaze turned hard, and he breathed out in frustration.

"I have heard... I am not certain, but I have heard that there is a faction that _may_ move against me..."

Octavian was taken aback; even Marcus, who rarely let any vulnerabilities show, looked surprised.

"Heard from whom?" Marcus asked.

"How…? But you have done nothing but serve the Empire all your life!" Octavian interjected. He threw the summons to the floor roughly. "How did you find out?"

Oddly, their father did not answer either of them, but simply turned slowly to face the fireplace. He seemed to look wistfully up to the Champion's arms above the mantelpiece.

"When the gates of Oblivion opened, our ancestor, the Champion, the Hero of Kvatch, nobly took up the call to serve the last Septim Emperor, to serve the whole of Tamriel. When the first Titus Mede took the throne with only a thousand men at his back, our family was the first to swear his allegiance and support. When the Empire split province by province and petty squabbling in Hammerfell threatened to split it further," he ran his fingers over a small bronze medal hanging from the mantelpiece, "_I_ led an army into Hammerfell to teach those damned Redguards the meaning of order and solidarity. We worked tirelessly to keep this Empire in order, and what do we have to show for it? An Elder Council seat less stable than the damned Empire itself." He suddenly slammed his fist into the mantelpiece in frustration, making Octavian and Marcus jolt.

"We have shown our family's loyalty to the Emperor and the Empire," he slowly continued, "We have shown it time and time again, and yet– "

"You never received recognition," Octavian spoke, realising the implication of his father's response, "The honour of High Chancellor." He looked forward as his father's steely eyes slowly met his own.

"The service, son," Augustus replied carefully, "Is just as important as the honour."

"And you deserve them both, Father!" Octavian replied, "We can _take_ them for you. We have enough wealth and men-at-arms– "

"_Men-at-arms?_" Marcus blurted from his side, "We can't just pick a fight with the Council. You're mad, brother."

"So I am," Octavian snapped, "Do you even believe in anything, Marcus?"

Marcus stuttered and gaped. A nerve had been struck. Octavian could almost hear the satisfactory sound of his younger brother's jaw hitting the floor, completely lost for words. He walked up closer to his father now, his small victory having given him some confidence. "If the Chancellor expels you, I'll fight. I'll march on the Imperial City myself in protest." He looked into his father's eyes desperately, hoping to find some form of approval. For a moment, he couldn't tell if he had found it– Augustus simply eyed his eldest son, his hard gaze scrutinising every part of him. Finally, Octavian felt his father's strong hand on his back.

"And you, Marcus?" their father spoke sternly. There was a flustered pause from behind them before Marcus replied:

"If you want me to fight as well," he took step forward, "I... I won't stay back..." Augustus slowly brought in his second son with his arm then gripped them both firmly by the shoulder.

"Listen," he said, looking from one son to the other, "There may be no need for any fighting. I am still well respected in the Councils, but I cannot depend on their help. But you are my sons; I must depend on you, and you must be there."

"We will," Octavian agreed. Marcus echoed his older brother.

"Good," Sir Augustus said, standing to his full height, the light from the fireplace giving him a fierce glow. "I know you both will not fail me. Now," he bent over to pick up the summons on the floor, "We cannot delay. I must make preparations for my departure tonight."

"You mean you are still travelling alone?" Octavian asked. Now that he had pledged to stand by his father, he expected that he would at least make the three-day ride out with him to the Imperial City.

"Yes," his father replied, "I must leave quickly. Marcus– " Augustus turned to his second son. "Go down to the stables and tell the men to prepare my horse, and arrange an escort. Send a courier to our servants in the Imperial City to prepare for my arrival." Marcus looked from his father to Octavian then quickly left the room, closing the heavy door behind him. Octavian stood up straight as his father turned to face him.

"Octavian," he said, taking his eldest by the shoulder, "I am entrusting you to take charge of Battlehorn in my absence. Listen to your mother, and look after your brother and sister. Make sure everyone is ready follow as soon as I send word." Octavian nodded.

"Of course, Father. I won't disappoint you."

"Don't. You kept me waiting today, and I want you to promise me that will not happen again."

"It won't. I promise."

"Good. I raised you to be a fine Colovian man. You must be. _Everything_," his father gestured around the room, "Everything I own will be yours one day, son. Everything I gain, you will gain, and everything I lose, you will lose."

"Then I will make sure you will gain it all," Octavian answered. He hoped he sounded confident, that his father hadn't noticed the slight wavering in his voice. Instead, there was a silence. His father eyed him up and down, his expression indiscernible. Minutes seemed to pass between them. Then, uncharacteristically for a heavy-handed Colovian warlord, Sir Augustus Antonius leant forward and placed a light kiss on his son's brow. Octavian felt his father's spiky grey stubble brush coldly on his forehead. He pulled away and smiled, then opened the study door and took one step out.

"And one more thing, Octavian."

"Yes, Father?"

"If you intend to make good on that noble promise, I would not lie to your father and fool around with village whores if I were you. Good day."

The door quickly closed, leaving Octavian standing stunned in the empty hallway. He stuttered, his mouth left gawking like a fish. Confusion clouded his mind then, a red mist descended. He felt a sudden surge of anger and embarrassment overwhelm him, and his fists clenched. _That little_–

"_MARCUS!_"

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><p><em>AN: I hope you guys liked that chapter. By the way, I've gone over the whole story and now it is *NEW AND IMPROVED* with non-messed up paragraphs. Thanks to the reviewer who pointed that out. (See? Leaving a review gets things done)._

_LEAVE A REVIEW. MAKE NICE THINGS HAPPEN._


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